


Half-Written

by Jaybeefoxy



Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Do Not Translate, Fluff, Flufftober, Flufftober prompts 2020, M/M, Mystrade fluff, Pre-Relationship, You do not have permission to post to another site, a story for the pandemic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27382576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Greg is caught in the 2020 lockdown, and Mycroft gets in touch.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950532
Comments: 5
Kudos: 86





	Half-Written

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, the last few stories and then it's done.

He abandoned the **half-written** diary on the desk, dropping his pen into the pot nearby. The words would not come, he could not find it in his heart to describe exactly how he felt. Lockdown was being exceptionally difficult. Greg was self-isolating, half his department was down with Covid and he was particularly worried about Sally, who was currently hospitalised. He had been made to hand over their current case to another team and he was feeling useless. Greg himself might have the virus, he didn't know. Bored stiff and feeling weirdly anxious, unable to do much from home, he had desperately tried not to empty the fridge of beer because he had no idea when he might replenish his supplies. It was at least a three week wait for an on-line food order, most stores were prioritising NHS key workers, and every store was out of toilet rolls, pasta and flour. _Of all the things to hoard_ , he thought. _People now decide we’re under siege_. 

Spring was in full swing; the weather was nice, people were having barbecues in their back gardens, the air was full of loud music, adult laughter and screaming kids. Greg was stuck on his own with no family or friends in the vicinity. His flat had no garden, so he had few options to get outdoors, apart from a tiny balcony above the portico, right beside his bay window, right above the street. So he was writing a diary, or trying to, just for something to do. He had his guitar, and his computer, but beyond that he had little to keep him occupied.

A message came through his email one morning as he was coming back from the bathroom, hair in disarray from the shower. His laptop pinged, helpfully. Wondering who was sending messages this early, he sat down to investigate. 

_From: M A Holmes holmes.ma@migov.co.uk_

_To: G Lestrade lestrade.ga@metp.co.uk_

_Subject: invitation to call_

_Dear Gregory_

_I find myself subject to this very vexing Lockdown, self isolating at home after a member of my team fell ill. Someone informed me that you too are self isolating at home and are also alone. May I extend the hand of friendship, as it were, and offer my companionship if you find yourself at a loose end. You are under no obligation to do so. It was merely a suggestion. I can offer mutual discussion with no interruptions from my younger brother._

_Do please call me. I would be happy to chat._

_Yours_

_Mycroft Holmes_

Greg stared at the email for a full five minutes, going over the implications in his head. Mycroft Holmes was emailing him? He was _happy to chat_? _Nope. Got to be a wind up._ Somehow Sherlock must have snuck into the man's office and sent him an email as a practical joke. _What on earth do I do now?_

_From: G Lestrade lestrade.ga@metp.co.uk_

_To: M A Holmes holmes.ma@migov.co.uk_

_Subject: calling you_

_Hi Mycroft_

_Thanks for the email. Just checking this isn't a wind-up. Don't want to insult you, but are you sure you want to talk to me? This isn't Sherlock sticking a spanner in the works?_

_Regards_

_Greg_

The reply pinged back half an hour later.

_From: M A Holmes holmes.ma@migov.co.uk_

_To: G Lestrade lestrade.ga@metp.co.uk_

_Subject: invitation to call_

_Dear Gregory_

_No, Sherlock is not at fault here. However, I am appreciative of the possibility, and understand your doubts. It is merely that I too am under lockdown protocol and find myself frustratingly inactive. I wonder if two such individuals can find mutual support and distraction in a rather strange situation._

_Regards_

_Mycroft Holmes_

_From: G Lestrade lestrade.ga@metp.co.uk_

_To: M A Holmes holmes.ma@migov.co.uk_

_Subject: calling you_

_Hi again, Mycroft,_

_Good to know Sherlock isn't causing you trouble. That's the problem with baby brothers, and we both know that Sherlock hasn't moved past the toddler stage, so he's unlikely to stop yet._

_Sorry to hear you’re stuck as well. Actually happy to chat if you want. Unfortunately some of my colleagues have caught this bloody thing, and Sergeant Donovan is rather ill in hospital with it. I’m pissed off that I can’t go see her. I have no idea how she is. I’m not family so I have no contact._

_Running out of supplies here too, and the shops are all stripped of toilet rolls, pasta and flour. Seriously wondering at the mentality of my fellow humans, although my job being what it is, perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised. I’ve managed a small order from a local shop but they're lacking general supplies as well. Nothing is coming through. So hope you are managing too. I’ll contact you tomorrow if you like, what say we chat after lunch? Do you wish to organise a zoom or something. Simply send me a link and give me a time._

_Yours_

_Greg_

Mycroft read, and reread the message several times. The man was so... _friendly._ He was congenial, pleasant, good humoured. _Of course, he's trying to be nice. That's what he's like._

_From: M A Holmes holmes.ma@migov.co.uk_

_To: G Lestrade lestrade.ga@metp.co.uk_

_Subject: supplies_

_Dear Gregory_

_I am sorry to hear that you are short of some things. I have had several words with the Minister for Transport, and his department is looking into the distribution problem. In the meantime, perhaps I can help. I have dispatched a car to your address this morning, and my driver will leave some things on your doorstep. Nothing much, but it should help. My housekeeper has stocked me rather well, and I am assured that supplies will be moving soon, but at present most distribution firms have a problem with available delivery drivers. Until then, I think the things I have sent you should last you well._

_Please do not feel the need to remunerate. I wouldn’t know what they were worth anyway, and I am happy to help._

_Yours_

_Mycroft_

_PS, I look forward to your call this afternoon. Zoom address below._

Sure enough there was a Zoom ID and password added for him to use, and a skype address as well. Greg was surprised at the gift of supplies, although he wondered what on earth Mycroft would think were suitable things. _And of course you’ve just ‘had a word with the Minister for Transport’,_ he thought wryly. 

At that moment, he heard the doorbell go and hurried out of his flat and down to the hall to find the masked and gloved driver removing three large hessian bags from the boot. Greg smirked. No plastic carrier bags for Mycroft Holmes. The driver spotted him and stepped forward to place the bags on the step.

“Inspector Lestrade?”

“That’s me, yeah. Thank Mr Holmes for me? This is very generous of him,” Greg said, taking the bags in hand. 

“He told me to tell you, sir, he has three times this, so not to worry.”

“Thank him anyway.” He watched as the car disappeared down the street, wondering at Holmes’ and their unusual ways.

Back in his kitchen he unpacked the bags like it was christmas. There was a pack of nine precious toilet rolls ( _how has it come to this, getting excited over toilet tissue_?), plus large bags of pasta, rice, and couscous, a couple of high end bottled sauces, a pack of frozen sausages, a pack of bacon, and another of mince. If he was canny, he could make it last for a good few days. There were fresh peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes and apples. There were also cartons of milk and orange juice. A jar of jam and a jar of marmalade jostled for space beside a bottle of peach and raspberry cordial, and there was also a loaf of sliced bread and some crusty bread buns. A six pack of his favourite beer sat on the bottom of the third bag.

“You beauty,” Greg murmured. He also found two precious bars of chocolate, (one milk, one dark) and a pack of cafetiere coffee too; a rather posh one from an artisan coffee house. It was a good job he had a cafetiere.

"Mycroft, thank you," was the first thing he said as the Zoom call connected that afternoon.

"My pleasure, Gregory. I hope my care package was adequate?" Even over Zoom, Mycroft looked immaculate. He had shed his jacket and rolled his sleeves 

up, a concession to the informal nature of their call, Greg supposed, not to mention the day was warm, and sunlight filled the room behind him. 

"Adequate?" Greg grinned. "It was Bloody spectacular. Thank you for your generosity, Mycroft. Much appreciated. You sure I can't pay you for it all?"

"Certainly not, I am far from being in short supply of anything. I could have sent more but it is really no use sending supplies if I don't know they'll be used. I'm not aware of any desire or ability that you may have for baking, for instance. If so, I can always send flour."

Greg smiled. "I'm probably a bit rusty, but if this lockdown continues, I may take it up again. I've got baking powder and stuff, just no flour."

"Then I shall endeavour to supply you with some. My housekeeper is the one who bakes, but she won't be coming to work for the foreseeable future, so no one will be using it."

"Oh, well, thanks. How did you know about the beer?"

"I confess I may have consulted a contact I have in that regard."

Greg chuckled. "Thank John for me then," he said. Mycroft gave him a small genuine smile of amusement. "Seriously, Mycroft, this is very kind of you. So," he added quickly, "what shall we chat about?"

They passed a pleasant forty five minutes in conversation about the best whiskies, the latest archaeological developments along the HS2 route which Greg had been reading about recently, Mycroft's last foray into northern Italy, whether Greg liked opera, and YouTube instructional videos for baking cakes, before Mycroft begged off because his office was calling him. Greg came away from the call wondering if the lockdown was going to cause any more weirdness. 

Over the next fortnight it turned into a regular thing with them, and they met over zoom a few more times, each time gradually discussing more and more of their likes and dislikes. They chatted over tea and sandwiches, discussed websites they had found to look at; gallery and museum walk-throughs, music videos, blogs and vlogs and other posts each thought the other might find interesting. Mycroft sent more supplies, and Greg baked, returning the favour by sending cakes back with Mycroft’s driver, always including some for the driver as well. Mycroft was able to access medical records and found out that Sally was recovering, setting Greg’s mind at rest concerning his colleague and friend. Greg was able to send her flowers, and a get well card.

The weeks turned into months, and summer arrived, and Greg sat outside on his balcony more regularly, dozing in the sultry afternoon sun. Someone further down the street had a saxophone, and entertained the neighbourhood every day by playing something new. They all began to go out on Thursday evenings to clap appreciation for the NHS, the whole street joining in. Eventually Greg videoed it, people clapping, kids banging pans, and shared it with Mycroft.

One evening ‘Mr Sax’, as people had begun to call him, was doing a creditable attempt at Jerry Rafferty's Baker Street, albeit without the guitar, and other people were chatting somewhere below him. The sun slanted onto his side of the street in the afternoon, and the brickwork radiated the heat back. Greg was content in his deckchair, a straw hat from his last holiday in Malaga balanced on his face, a paperback on his knee, his last beer by his foot. He took a selfie, and sent it to Mycroft. 

A short time later, his phone pinged. Glancing at it, he saw it was Mycroft. 

**What's up?** he typed quickly. **You got the pic?**

 _ **I did**_ came the swift reply. _**Would you care to Zoom?**_

**Sure. Send me a link, but gimme a few though. I'm outside.**

**_I did wonder where you were. I wasn't aware your flat had a garden._ **

**It doesn't, more's the pity. I have a balcony.**

**_How quaint._ **

Greg levered himself up from the chair, groaned and stretched, then went inside, tossing his hat in a corner of the sofa, and heading to the kitchen for some hydration. Once he had a glass in his hand, he sat down at his computer, and booted it up. Sure enough an email awaited him, with a zoom link. 

“Mycroft, hello. How are you?”

“Passing well, thank you. You?”

“Not bad. Nothing’s come up, I’m still furloughed from work, although I’m on standby. Crime has taken a nosedive, and I think I’ve avoided the virus. I’ve had no symptoms.”

“Myself included. However, if this is proving one thing, it is that a lot of work can be done from the comfort of one’s own home. Even my brother and John Watson are finding that.”

“He hasn't gone stir crazy yet then?”

“I believe he has tried, but John seems adept at curbing his more ambitious escape attempts these days. Rosie is, of course, an endless source of inspiration to him.”

“Makes a great dad, doesn’t he?”

“He does indeed. I sometimes think it is a pity we never married.”

“Eh? Oh, you mean Sherlock and you? Why haven’t you, Mycroft?”

There was a pause. “Perhaps,” Mycroft said, a little wistfully, “because I did not find the right person. It is hard to find someone with whom one can forge a lasting relationship. Either one acquires a wife who can ‘keep house’ and play host to ambassadors, while simultaneously putting up with a spouse who is little more than a husband in name alone, or one remains single and bereft of anyone. There are no half measures.”

“You need someone who understands the hours you keep, and the reason why.” 

“Precisely.”

“Someone who knows the job, understands the people you deal with…”

“Exactly.” 

“Someone who wouldn’t need you to be there for them all the time.”

“Astutely observed.”

“And someone who likes you.”

“Likes me?”

“Yeah, likes you for you, not for who they think you are, or what they can get out of you.”

“Well...I suppose so.”

The two men regarded each other for a moment. Greg could see the moment realisation hit Mycroft, because his eyes widened fractionally.

“When this is over,” Greg began. “You know, when we can meet up again…”

“Come for dinner.”

“Come to mine.” The two men spoke simultaneously, their words colliding over the airwaves. Greg laughed. Mycroft smiled, an honest-to-goodness genuine curve of his lips, which was a miracle in and of itself. “Seriously, come over to mine and I’ll cook. We can relax properly.” 

“You...understand…”

“Yeah, Mycroft, I do.”

“You... _like_ me?” He sounded incredulous.

“Strange as it may seem, yes I do. You’re not an ogre, Myc. Wouldn’t need you to be there for me all the time, either. This has been a really amazing thing to do, chatting like this. I mean...stopped me going crazy, for one.”

“Myself included. I have...enjoyed our discussions, Gregory. I would like it considerably if we were to continue…”

“No sooner said than done, Mycroft. And when we can properly get together, let’s see where this goes, eh?”

“I would like that, more than words can express.”

“Good, because I feel the same, Mycroft. I really do feel the same.” 


End file.
